by Chris Bunch
She heard the fresher flush, came out, as if in a hurry, and bumped hard into the older man. She stumbled, went to her knees, and the man was bending over her.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes … yes …” M’chel said. “I just feel clumsy.”
He helped her to her feet, and she smiled at the man, a warm, inviting smile.
“I should buy you a drink,” she said, “for banging into you.”
“No, no,” the man said. “I think I should buy you … and your friend … one. Do you come here often?”
“Every now and then,” Riss purred. “When there’s the promise of good company. Sometimes with my friend, sometimes alone.”
“Ah,” the man said. “I’d certainly like to join you in the bar for an after-dinner drink, but I’m here on business.”
“Perhaps we could make it another time,” Riss said. She dug in her tiny cocktail purse, careful not to expose her small gun, took out a business card.
It read:
MANDY DAVES, RECREATIONAL THERAPIST.
Under that was one of the com lines into the mansion that was answered only with “Hello.”
The man looked at Riss, licked his lips without realizing it, reached inside his suit, gave her a card: LESNOWTH ALMAHARA, CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER, CHETWYND INDUSTRIES.
“We should think about giving each other a call,” M’chel said. “I do prefer older men … they have so much more to talk about.”
Almahara smiled back, a bit hungrily, and the two returned to their meals.
• • •
“Got him,” King said. “Chetwynd Industries is a major defense builder … one of the bidders on the Belfort Orbital Defense System.”
“You satisfied?” Riss asked Goodnight.
“A nice quiet little dinner,” Goodnight said dreamily. “And, no doubt, a discreet envelope passed to the head of Strategic Intelligence over the dessert, to make sure he stays happy.
“Now that’s somebody to have on the pad,” he continued. “The head of IIa would know anything and everything proposed for defense spending, and, no doubt, the bid ceiling, and who else will be bidding. Including, maybe, that orbital system for the Belfort Worlds.
“Our Caranis,” he said, and now a bit of disappointment came, “is no better than a common crook, not a big time spy. Hardly worth worrying about. And I was wrong. It’s L’Pellerin all the way.”
“Umm-hmm,” Riss said.
“So why aren’t you gloating more about not only being right, but getting the bastard cold?”
“Because,” M’chel Riss said, “I’m looking over Jasmine’s shoulder, staring at the good Almahara’s itinerary, and an announcement of a Traditional Event, according to the Pacifist, and suddenly I think I’ve got a good way to nail L’Pellerin.
“Good and final, putting him dead at the crossroads with a stake in his heart. Not to mention publicly exposed. Assuming, of course, I’m still as sneaky as I used to be.”
FIFTY-THREE
From an advertisement, discreetly placed in several of Torguth’s business holos:
Interested Investors
Get in at the beginnings of a mammoth profit-maker. Major investments are now sought for work in a new solar system, soon to be open for full exploitation, for those seriously interested in Torguth’s future growth. Areas of potential development include light and heavy mineral works, agricultural, and heavy and light manufacturing. A docile workforce and working conditions designed for the serious entrepreneur are guaranteed, without interference. This opportunity fully approved by Governmental agencies. For more information, contact …
FIFTY-FOUR
The trap for L’Pellerin would have to be carefully set and sprung.
It involved a rather strange gathering called the Artists’ Ball, which was not a ball, nor were any artists, unless they came from the very rich, ever invited. Perhaps they had been, in the early days of Dampier, but no more. Instead, the Ball was a five-day-long gathering of Dampier’s hierarchy. There were no media, no “outsiders,” certainly no social critics invited.
The Artists’ Ball was held on a secluded island of southern Montrois. There were cabins small and large, dining halls, conference rooms big and small, plus all the recreational facilities anyone could want. The staff was specially hired for the five days, and flown in. Certainly the staff was either superbly professional or equally attractive and handsome.
A handful of journalists and populists had tried to infiltrate the Ball over the years, and uniformly had been caught by the island’s heavy security and escorted back to the mainland, not infrequently with thick ears.
There had been rumors about the Ball for over a century: This was where the Dampier System’s future was planned; This was where the rich divided up their spoils, and agreed not to step on each others’ toes; This was where conglomerates were formed and dissolved.
Most of these were true.
There were other stories: No one ever brought his or her legal mate; Anyone leaking to the media about anything that happened was liable to end up without a career or worse; There had been at least two hushed-up murders; Some industrialists had gone bankrupt after rounds of high-stakes gambling; There were orgies every night.
Annually, the Artists’ Ball was derided by the leftish holos as a rich degenerates’ playground, and every year the suites of the wealthy and powerful were vacant for those five days.
Two days before the Ball, M’chel went to Reynard, meeting him in his party’s campaign headquarters, where Reynard had a party-leader-size office, decorated as a successful pol’s sanctum should be.
First, she told him their suspicions — near certainty — about L’Pellerin.
The man was honestly shocked. “He has too much power,” Reynard said, “and has been known to misuse it. I told you once he was crooked, but I never, ever, thought he was a traitor. No wonder he was so quick to condemn poor Sufyerd. I was right, I was right, but gods, what a price this is going to cost.”
M’chel added that L’Pellerin was also the single head of the Masked Ones. Reynard’s hands were trembling. He sat down behind his desk abruptly.
“Can I get you something?” Riss asked.
“Yes … yes. A brandy. There’s a decanter in that sideboard.”
M’chel held back a grin. Things were going much, much better than she’d planned. She went to the sideboard, fumbled for the decanter, and poured Reynard a snifter. Riss brought it back, and he drained it.
“What are we going to do? What are we going to do? If I accuse him now … that’ll be a debacle. A disaster. There are stories, reliable stories, that he has private information on most politicians that could destroy them. If he’s fighting for his life, I have no doubt that he would make sure that information is disseminated. We do not need, in these parlous times, a disaster of this size.”
Riss declined to ask if L’Pellerin had anything on Reynard himself.
“Don’t worry,” Riss said. “At least, don’t worry too much. Star Risk has a way, I’m fairly sure, of defusing the situation. But I need your help.” Riss explained what she needed.
Reynard nodded jerkily. “That’s not much … and yes, I’m certain I can ensure L’Pellerin attends the Artists’ Ball, even at this short notice, though he’s loudly denounced it from time to time.
“And the second thing you need … again, that isn’t a problem, particularly with the current situation with Torguth.
“But … to speak frankly, my dear Riss, I don’t think I should attend this Ball. I hate saying that, for it makes me sound most cowardly, but this election will be close run, at least at this point, and I … or rather the Independents … can’t risk any problems.”
M’chel, privately thinking that Reynard did, indeed, come across as a coward, assured him that Star Risk could also make sure he wouldn’t be able to attend the Ball, and there would be no questions raised about the convenience of Reynard’s absence.
That had already been thought of and taken c
are of.
• • •
Goodnight watched Grok move through a small array of glassware, admiring the alien’s deftness.
“I do appreciate the concoctions you devise,” he said.
“Thank you, Chas,” Grok said, holding up a test tube. “This is a particularly strong version of trithio-pental, and should, assuming all goes well, be exactly the wonder drug we need.”
“Better living through chemistry,” Goodnight murmured. “I wish to hell I could see what happens when it works … just like I’d love to see what happens when that hellbrew M’chel put in Reynard’s booze kicks in.”
FIFTY-FIVE
No one, at least in the Dampier or Belfort systems, ever knew exactly what happened to the Dampier Patrol Ship Webb. It was one of half a dozen aging warships loaned by Dampier to the Belfort Worlds, primarily as an adjunct to their customs service.
The only information was that the Webb sent a ‘cast, on its standard frequency, to the patrol command on Belfort II, reporting that an unknown ship had emerged from N-space, and they’d been unable to reach it:
Suggest ship is most likely the cargo carrier expected to arrive in-system in one E-day, running early. But will close, and ensure nothing’s awry. Stand by on this —
The transmission broke off.
The Webb’s command tried to contact the ship, at first routinely, since the old tub’s electronics were forever going out, then with increasing urgency.
No reply ever came.
Search ships went out, but were unable to find any traces of the Webb.
The mostly Universalist caretaker government waffled suspiciously, then announced the Webb had met with an unknown accident, adding that, even in this modern age, starships still did meet with unfortunate calamities. That was bad enough, but the release went on to say “there is absolutely no evidence of any Torguth involvement in the catastrophe.”
Star Risk theorized it’d found a Torguth spy ship who shot first.
The accident happened the day before the Artists’ Ball.
Riss hated to celebrate someone else’s death. But this played into Star Risk’s court.
• • •
Within hours one of Tuletia’s street singers, using the tune of an old folk song, had written a ballad called “The Death of the Webb.”
It spread across the planet, and was picked up and recorded by one of Tuletia’s best-known singers.
FIFTY-SIX
It wasn’t scheduled to be much of a speech. In fact, only a few of the holos bothered to cover ex-Premier Reynard’s announcement that, tomorrow, he would be taking a break from the “cares and pressures of the campaign trail to confer with trusted aides and others.”
Which meant Reynard didn’t want to go to the Artists’ Ball. Which M’chel Riss had promised to find an out of.
But he couldn’t contact her, and he was very worried about what she thought was a Star Risk certainty, and hoped it didn’t involve a phony assassination attempt. That played hell on the knees of custom-made suits.
Reynard took a reassuring nip of his brandy before going down in the lift to the press room. His stomach roiled a bit, and he told it to be still. Soon enough he’d be out of the camera’s eye, and could relax as much as he ever allowed himself to.
He smiled at the handful of holo reps in the press room and greeted those he knew, which was most of them.
“This is fairly routine, gentlepeople,” he said. “As my aides have told you, I shall be taking a few days — ”
Very suddenly matters become unroutine, as he threw up all over his podium. He staggered sideways, was rackingly ill again, and went to his knees. Riss’s potion went into high gear, and Reynard into parabolic vomiting.
Only one of the holos showed footage of the fairly disgusting sight. The others cursed that they were not there for the momentous footage.
There certainly was no question whatever that Reynard would be bedridden for at least a few days, and unable to travel anywhere.
FIFTY-SEVEN
L’Pellerin’s chief aide noted the secret policeman’s sour expression as the lifter began its landing approach to the nameless island.
“Chief, are you all right?”
“Fine,” L’Pellerin said. “I do not like this waste of time, especially on a topic such as I was asked to discuss. ‘The Perilous Situation with Torguth.’ Pah. What fools these politicians be. You prove to them that there is no concern, and what do they do? They want you to talk some more about how safe they are.”
“Yessir,” the aide said neutrally, looking out the port.
L’Pellerin’s lifter, as befitted the head of Dampier’s secret service, was escorted by two patrol ships ahead, and two to the rear, plus his armed guards in lifters on either side of his ship. In addition, a pair of destroyers flew high cover.
Below was the island, an amoeba-shaped tropical forest in turquoise seas. On this, the first day of the Ball, lifters swarmed around the landing area.
There were some early arrivals already sporting with watercraft in the water.
“At least,” the aide ventured, “we’ll be able to keep early hours.”
“You, perhaps,” L’Pellerin grumped. “I have more than enough paperwork, not to mention what the office sends on.”
“Yessir. Sorry, sir. Of course I’ll work along with you.”
L’Pellerin nodded. “I know you will.”
It was a definite statement of fact.
• • •
The patrol ship lay on the bottom at thirty meters. It had landed two hours before, some kilometers out to sea, coming in low and landing without a splash. Submerged, it sought the bottom, then “flew” along it toward the island.
“Sorry to be preoccupied, M’chel,” the first pilot said. “I don’t have a lot of hours playing submarine.”
“That’s all right,” Riss said. “You just keep us from swimming into some giant squid that eats spaceships.” She was feeling more than a little claustrophobic, fought the feeling down.
“We’re grounding where you wanted to exit,” the pilot said over his shoulder. “I guess that’s the word for it.”
“I’ll beep you for pickup when I’m finished.” She avoided using or thinking the word “if.”
Riss wore a wet suit and full helmet with breathing apparatus, fins, and a bulky pack. She cycled herself out through the lock into the dark green world, adjusted her fins, and pushed off. She had to stop to adjust the buoyancy to perfect neutral on the pack, then swam on, following the guide her wrist compass gave.
She wasn’t much pleased with her progress or her physical shape. There hadn’t been much time for working out lately, especially at swimming.
The bottom was rising, and she could look up and see the silvery sheen of the surface. Her breathing apparatus was built to bleed exhaled air out into the water in tiny bubbles, so there’d be no giveaway on the surface to any watchers.
She held close to the bottom for a few seconds as a boat, maybe pleasure, maybe security, swept overhead at speed, leaving a deep wake behind. The waves gave her cover to move closer to shore.
She came to the surface, popped her head up on the far side of a small wave. She was on the far side of the island, away from the arrivals and the excitement, which was just where she wanted to be. Ahead should be a cove that on the chart had been marked for deep water.
It was.
She went for the depths again, swam into the cove. Small waves three meters above her broke on craggy rocks. She discharged air from the pack, let it sink her to the gravelly bottom.
Her watch finger told her it was two hours until sunset. On the island the last of the guests should be arriving, being assigned their cottages, and getting ready for the first night’s banquet.
As it grew dark, Riss reinflated the pack, let it take her to the surface.
This was the most dangerous part.
The sea was calm and warm, and a gentle wind was blowing.
There was no
sign of life.
She clambered up onto a ledge and stripped off the diving gear.
From her pack, she took a phototropic coverall and other gear. Riss put her diving gear into the pack, held it underwater, and adjusted the buoyancy to negative.
Naked, she dove to the bottom with the pack, and grunted a small boulder on top of it. If a storm didn’t come up and blow her pack to who knows where, it would be waiting when — not if — she returned.
M’chel surfaced, clambered up on the rocks, put on the coveralls, a pair of tight-fitting boots, and, comforting feeling, her combat harness.
The only other item she had was a slender meter-long tube of dark metal, with a pistol grip and a tiny-apertured peep sight. It was a single-shot, high-pressure air gun.
She pulled the coveralls’ hood over her head and took a small receiver from a harness pouch. She crawled, very slowly, to the top of the rocks. There was an inviting, romantic beach in front of her. The receiver vibrated in her hand. She saw where the motion detector line was, crawled up to it.
Another bit of electronics came out of her pouch, and she “buzzed” this detector relay into harmlessness. Then she crawled through the zone, and brush rose about her. Very good. Very, very good.
Now she had all night to get where she was going. She waited awhile, to make sure nobody was stalking her, then went on, never moving faster than a meter a minute.
Twice the telltale said there was an electronic device ahead, twice she momentarily confused it, passed through without setting off any alarms.
A pair of guards came through, but they were talking, and hardly any bother. Now she could move faster. Riss crested the mountain’s ridge, and could hear music, happy laughter from below, where the Ball’s estate spread.
Enjoy yourselves, ladies and gentlemen, she thought. Drink hearty. So you’ll sleep really, really well.
She heard rustling, and went into a bush. In the dim moonlight, she saw two more guards … and a dog. She hated dogs — at least when she was at work, and they weren’t on her side. Riss heard the dog whine, knew it had scented her.
